Look How You Turned Out (26 page)

"I believe…master."

He loves that. He rolls us around while he hugs me. He makes me laugh.

Dad and Marcus take ownership of Billy's in January. We plan to keep the name, but we close the restaurant for a couple of weeks to clean, reorganize, remodel. Teresa keeps a watchful eye on the kitchen, so there are two guys working full time in there.

And there's six more in the dining room and bar. Two of these are redoing the bathrooms.

But there are some things you don't ever want to touch at Billy's. Billy's is an institution, and people have an opinion about all of it. The building itself. Repair by all means, but walk softly and lightly for Billy's is one of the constants in this part of the woods. The wide front porch stays the wide front porch. The double wooden screen doors and the double wooden entrance doors a must. The old brick façade, don't touch it. Someone's grand-dad made those bricks, someone else's grand-dad headed the crew that laid them. The side of the building's great big screened-in porch and the heavily painted wide-planked wood floor and matching ceiling where the summer barbecue menu is served in the evening, yeah don't be touching any of that either.

And inside, it's a living museum. Most around here remember coming to Billy's as children, their grandmas remember coming as children, too.

The bar is, in its own right, as sacred as the altar Abraham might have nearly sacrificed Isaac upon. It's a big old long shiny bar, as long as one side of the room and so are the shelves that run ceiling to back bar to floor, behind it, filling the wall with beautiful cherry wood.

It's a work of art, that bar, and the ladder-backed stools with dozens of names carved into them in various places, each of them could materialize and order their own drinks they are so close to being characters themselves.

By February it's all been refurbished, cleaned and varnished. It's a real prize that whole focal point, first thing you see when you come in, well you see the end of it if you look to the right, the dining room is what sprawls before you, or used to. Now we have a partition and a reception desk and more chairs and low tables. You can get a drink at the bar and wait in the chairs while your table gets ready come Friday night when we have the buffet or on Sunday when the church crowds get out and come for lunch.

Yeah, high class has come to Billy's. But it's come with care.

And on Valentine's Day…we're going to launch this rocket ship.

"There are child labor laws," Connie says, passing Juney where he's hauling a bag of trash out back.

"He wants to be a part of it," I say, but she didn't really have time to wait even long enough for that one sentence, we are that slammed on this Valentine's Day evening.

As for Juney, he begged to be a part of the launch even though it puts him to bed at a ridiculous hour on a school night.

He said he needs to earn. Marcus asked him, "For what?" but he's not saying, just that he's saving up.

But he's also asked me if he'll inherit the place someday, and I've told him it's a distinct possibility. So that sealed his involvement. He thinks he's the owner.

The truth is, the launch has consumed our family. No way Juney's not going to be a part of it.

That's the trouble with kids like us…motherless…we tend to either stay perpetual babies looking to nurse, or we think we're the partners of our abandoned parents. Worse we can go from one extreme to the other in about six seconds depending on mood or blood sugar levels, proper sleep or something. It's that…wild. I am corralling Juney with arms open wide, cajoling him out of being a baby when he's a brat, and encouraging him to relax when he's being forty-five. It's like the bubble in a level. I'm helping both of us find our middle.

Tonight, Billy's is humming. Packed. We required reservations, but we've had walk-ins all evening because everyone around here feels ownership—a table at Billy's is their birthright…for being born in or even around Lowland.

Knowing the clientele is imperative for a good business owner. Yeah, they're a stubborn, stoic, routine-oriented bunch.

Can't tell them a thing, but they are happy to tell you…off. They've been coming here all their lives and never had to reserve anything.

Fortunately, I've kept five tables for these dunderheads to set their righteous behinds at if they are willing to wait, and most of them are. You won't get food this good anywhere around here, and they know it. So we bow and scrape and work our behinds off to make it fun…and delicious. That's the game. I think. I'm really just figuring it out, but I know it includes service, service, and more service.

I've been seating people, making sure tables are cleared and set so Connie can handle any back-ups in the kitchen. We're all wearing white shirts and black jeans with white butcher's aprons. Each of us needs to make sure we're pristine.

There are clean aprons in back.

Every table has a red and white tavern checked cloth under glass and a red rose in a glass vase, and a battery operated candle. Sounds cheesy but when they're all lit, and you look across the room, it's ambiance our lovers are appreciating.

And the live music helps.

There are some complimentary starters freshened at each table with the arrival of new guests—cowboy caviar and chips, also candy hearts. A terrible combination, cowboy beans, and candy, but fitting for the occasion and already proving a great success.

We have three entrees, chicken and heart shaped waffles, roasted pork, and barley with brandied peaches, or a fabulous ribeye that Coy, of all people, cooks to perfection. That goes with roasted vegetables drizzled with brown butter. Vegans are out of luck, but there are no Vegans in Lowland. That's my theory. But for the Vegetarians or the kiddies, we have a wicked and less wicked mac and cheese. If you're an adult, it's mac and beer and cheese, if you're a kid it's practically the stuff in the box. Juney loves it which means it's just crappy enough to be acceptable.

Basically, if it can be made in an iron skillet, and anything can, then Teresa, and surprisingly, Coy, are the masters of it.

It's mostly couples tonight though a few have brought their children. Getting babysitting can be tough, I know that as I was drafted to babysit for most of the deputies in Artie's department through my middle and high school years, and often for one Junior Stover. As previously stated, I was consoled by doing favors for the father…my husband.

Even now, tired as I am, I want to snicker. My husband. But really I pretty much adored Juney even as I didn't want to.

Well, I was the sun in my own universe and two suns…too much.

And now? No matter how busy I am, my eye is searching through the crowd for that little head of red. He works as hard as the rest of the crew, especially considering his age and size—he's fierce—he's Junior Stover in an apron which turned around could be a cape. He's a super-hero.

So when one of the waitresses accuses Juney of taking her tip from table five, and he says there was no tip, and I check very quickly and find they put it on their card, I am quick to motion for Juney to come along and I follow the girl back to the kitchen. She's a new hire, but Teresa knows her family and spoke for her.

"Hey Tiffany you seem to be doing a good job out there tonight," I say, "but if you think you have a problem with Juney you come to me…his mom. You don't address my son like you just did out on the floor or anywhere else but in my presence. He didn't take your tip. I overheard you accusing him, and that's not cool. So you got a problem with my son, you see me. Clear?"

"Sure Bedilia," she says, she shoots a look at Juney, then me again, then she's on her way to pick up an order.

My dad sends another girl into the kitchen to get me. He's helping at the bar, so I have to go.

Later, when I get a breather, I look for Juney. Teresa tells me he's out back.

"Juney," I call. There's a porch light, but it doesn't reach all the corners.

He says, "Back here."

I go out by the dumpsters. "Hey. How you doin'?"

"I didn't take it," he says with offense.

"Juney…it's adults in there. We're all busy. It can be tough."

"I'm fine," he says hefting the last big bag. He looks at me. "She doesn't come back quickly enough for her tips. I had to get her twice so I could bus the table."

I have to remember not to laugh. He's a little Judge Judy, and he's got a point. "Well, she's learning, you know?" We all are.

He nods, hands on his hips like he's about sixteen. I almost ask him for a cigarette, but neither one of us smokes.

"Hey…you're doing a great job." I take his hands and dance a little. "We're doing it! It's going great!"

"Where's Dad?" he says, smiling a little.

"Verking," I say like I'm Helga, one of my thirteen personalities I have told him about in the past.

He pulls his hands away. "We better get back in there."

He walks on like he's the big person and I'm the short-stuff. I hurry after. "Hey wait up."

I catch him at the door and put my hand on it to hold it closed. "Hey…hold on a minute."

"What?" he says, eager to get back at it.

"I'm proud of you…you know?"

"No," he laughs.

"I am. You're…you're my Juney."

"Your Juney?"

"My…," I nearly say 'boy,' but at the last second I say, "…son." It's happened. It just has.

"Oh…let me in," he groans, but he's smiling.

"You're like…nineteen all of a sudden. Time goes so fast Precious," I say in that voice.

He ducks under my arm and pulls on the door. "You're crazy," he says before zipping inside.

"About you," I say because that always gets him. "Hey wait. You need to change that apron."

He sees the stains from the trash and is quickly untying. I take a clean one from the stack and put the loop over his head, and he holds out his arms while I tie it, "over your six-pack," I say.

"Mom," he whispers like I am crazy, but I don't care. He's trying not to laugh.

He hurries out then, and I'm staring after.

He said it. Not hey…or Bedilia. It's not just written on a mug.

We've jumped the chasm.

It's like I've given birth.

I have a son.

Exhausted. Yes. And where is Marcus? Still working. He missed the whole launch. I figured he'd make it around midnight. He'd texted instructions. I was to have Artie walk Juney and me out to his truck and drive us home.

Um no. I appreciated Marcus's care and concern. I knew he had access to all the sucky crime reports, that what might happen is always on the mind of a cop. So whenever he texted me, I put him at ease with a couple of words—got it. Miss you. Love you.

But I am terribly disappointed he didn't make it to Billy's, even though I know the ropes. And I will drive myself and Juney home. I lived in Chicago for heaven sakes.

Juney has fallen asleep in the office lying across three chairs. Dad is worn out and all about Teresa now. And Dad is not going home. But he explains to me that Teresa is just helping him out, taking care of him. There's no funny business going on. He's an old-fashioned man. He's resting at Teresa's. She is driving him to her house. They are taking things slow. He hasn't lost his sense of right and wrong. He's still my dad.

I am too tired to be as horrified by this conversation as I normally would be. "Dad," I say, "it's been like nineteen years. There's probably…guys who've become priests…and left in a quarter of that time."

"You did great out there tonight, kiddo," he says ignoring me like he usually does when I say stuff he doesn't want to deal with. "And that one…he's something else," Dad said pointing at his inert grandson.

"Yeah," I say all goofy. "He's…pretty adorable. Calls me Mom," I shrug, and tears come, and I have to get ahold of myself.

Dad gives me a big hug. "That's great, Bedilia."

I tell him I love him. He tells me he loves me. We're partners…still. Valentines from way back. Fitting because we work well together. We always have.

So Juney and I are finally out the door ready to head home at two a. m. Normally it wouldn't matter, but Juney has to be at school this very Saturday morning for a special band competition. Big deal. He's a baby. He can pretend to play his French Horn…while he sleeps. He says he doesn't want to go. He's usually pretty responsible, and if he doesn't want to go no biggie.

So I load us up for home. He walks, but it's not a walk I can trust. He is passing the Jeep and headed for the woods.

"Juney," I say sharply, and he veers back toward the vehicle, his arms flopping around, the walking dead, point made.

I get the door, and he falls in. Falls. His face is on the seat, his body crumpled on the floor. I'm not going to argue until we start to move, and I realize he can't wear his seatbelt, so I stop until he is up and properly buckled.

He's asleep in two minutes but for me, it won't be as easy. I am revved and exhausted at the same time. I probably won't sleep because it takes me forever to wind down. And I have that red thong.

I want to see Marcus and give him his living Valentine.

But when I pull into our driveway at home, Marcus is still not there. I've texted and gotten another quickie answer. "Be there soon. Sorry. Love." But I was supposed to let him know when we got in so I've done my part. I shower, put on the red butt floss, and I flop.

Lying there, sideways on the Serta, cheek crushed against Elaine's bedspread that slightly matches my thong, I know he's a big boy, and I'm too tired to investigate. I'm too….

But a few hours later I'm standing in our bedroom, before Marcus, who has finally come home. He's taken off the extras—badge and gun, belt—he's holding those, and he's in a black undershirt. If sex was a man….

"No, no, no, no," I'm saying. His right eye is swollen partially shut. It happens. I know I'll find his shirt already soaking in the washer. It's what they do, cops, so the kids don't see. The injury is bad enough.

That's why he didn't come to Billy's last night. He was dealing with this, and then the hospital. He's got a couple of stitches.

I've seen Marcus hurt before. But now, it hurts me in a whole new way.

"Oh my face, my favorite face, my handsome…my handsome…." I'm moving my hands around him. He keeps trying to get a good look at my thong so he moves us in front of the mirror.

So here we are, it's four thirty in the morning. It has been a night. He got knocked off his feet and met a china cabinet, he says. One of the big Duval twins, knew them well from Artie, meth-heads, wife-beaters, possum eaters!

He shushes me, fingers running all over my red frill and we stand there, and he does that, and he looks at us in the mirror while we hold each other. "I like this."

He scoops me up after a couple of minutes and lays me on the bed like I'm the one hurt.

He gets in beside me and covers us up.

We make sloppy, Valentine’s Day love. It takes about three minutes. He puts his arms around me. I don't even remember falling asleep it must be instantaneous.

But he's up in a couple more hours, three more. "What is it?" I say, barely able to open my eyes.

"Juney has band. You sleep. I'll take him."

"No. He's not going. Marcus…come back to bed." My hand is reaching.

"I can't," he says.

"It's too much. He didn't get to bed until two-thirty. He worked like a little champ. You can't take him. Come on. I'm still wearing the thong."

"Yeah, it's on my mind, believe me. But we made a deal…he did."

He means Juney begged to work in the launch and Marcus, who was against it because he had the band thing, folded with Juney's promise he'd still be okay to go to the contest.

"It's your fault. You didn't show up to take him home," I say.

He points to his face as he balances to pull on his pants.

"I know, so we revamp the plan. He needs to sleep."

"He can sleep when this thing is over. I paid five hundred bucks for that instrument, and we made a deal he would take it seriously."

"He does! He wasn't out smoking a dubee last night, he was working his little butt off at your diner!"

He has his pants on, but they aren't closed. He's posing like the Jolly Green Giant, but he looks way better…like ripped and even beat up…just amazing.

"You're blowing my order," he says.

"Your order is too set in stone, Marcus," I say.

"Exactly," he says and to my dismay, he goes to his sock drawer.

I'm up, closing the drawer, almost getting his fingers caught. "Sorry," I say. I cross my ankles and my arms. Juney is not going to band.

"I've got a headache," he grinds out as makes it evident he wants to open the drawer.

"And it's me?" I say. "I'm the ache?"

"Sometimes," he says.

I keep looking at him, waiting for him to recant or restate or something.

He doesn't, so I stalk to the bed and lay back down, yanking the covers over me. "Nice," I say.

I bounce around as he sits beside me. "Hey. I'm a jerk when I'm failing."

"Failing? Who…where are you failing?"

He’s looking at me.

"Not me," I say. He's not failing me.

He looks at the ceiling, flexing his jaw, shaking his head a little, lips almost pursed.

"What is this?" I say.

"I wanted to be there," he says.

Oh. At the launch. "I know. It's okay."

He's no nonsense now. "No, it isn't."

"Okay. You want to punch yourself in the other eye? Don't be ridiculous." I say, sitting up.

"I want him to meet his commitments," he says.

"He does."

"I don't want him to think…he can make a promise and blow it off."

"Are we talking about Juney…or Obama? I mean…is it so serious?"

He has to smile now. But I'm not smiling. Not really. "Are you this…hard on Juney?"

He looks quickly at me. "I'm not hard on him. Do you think I am?"

"If you make him go to band…you're…Hitler."

"Spoken like a true headache," he says, and even his smile doesn't soften that.

"I don't like being called a headache."

He gets serious. "Alright. Pain in my ass?"

We're quiet again. I'm not laughing.

"C'mere," he says gathering me. "I mean good headache. Good pain in my ass. Good…ass," he says squeezing down there.

I’m still not…with him. Not against him. Not with him.

He kisses me, and I look at him close and cringe anew over his shiner and the stitches.

Now I’m too serious. “I had to make a call. He was tired.”

“This kind of work…,” he says, then he sighs.

Yeah, he doesn’t have to tell me. This kind of work throws a wrench into your personal life on a regular basis.

“You have to be able to make a call,” he says. “I love that about you.”

“Just…not so much…or what?” I say. I do know what he’s saying, but he’s saying it all wrong.

“I don’t know. He’s….”

“He’s yours. I get it.”

“No, no…,” he makes me look at him. “Bedilia, don’t say that.”

“Okay. What do you want me to say?” I don’t add, ‘master.’ But I nearly do.

“It’s…we gotta get on the same page,” he says.

“I thought we were,” I say.

“Yeah, but babe…that isn’t a one-time thing.”

“I know that, Marcus. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re taking it personal….”

“It is personal. I’m the headache, the pain in your ass!”

“Babe, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah I do. You mean all of it. You want to run a tight ship. Cop us into submission.”

“Responsibility, Bedilia,” he says in a much-less cajoling voice.

“Oh, I guess I don’t know anything about that? I guess you’re holding Chicago against me?”

“What? No.”

“I didn’t grow up spoiled, Marcus. I know how to meet my ‘responsibilities.’” I do the disgusting air-quotes thing.

“I didn’t accuse you…we’re talking about his…one time.”

“Are we? I feel like I got in your way. Your parental way.”

“No.”

“I mean…what am I? The girlfriend you married? Still?”

He sighs.

“Can you share Juney?”

“With you? I always have.”

“Not as his mom,” I say.

“So if I let him sleep and get out of our deal, then I’m good with you?”

“You got out of the deal. You didn’t pick him up, and he kept working. It’s a family business, Marcus. He worked like a little man! You messed up, even if you couldn’t help it. He’s a cop’s kid, and we have to adapt. I get that. But sometimes ‘you’ have to adapt. Otherwise, you become Moses!”

“What am I teaching him?”

I’m not frustrated anymore. “Responsibility isn’t Juney’s problem, Marcus. It isn’t yours. Just have mercy.”

“Oh man,” he says, almost rubbing his eyes, but with the hurt one, I grab his hand and stop him just in time.

"I don't know how you got along without me," I sigh. "Juney. He a…he called me Mom."

He laughs, and he squeezes me. I pull back to look at him, to put my hand on his face.

“I’ll text his band instructor?” I say.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “It’s on me.”

“You mad at me?”

He gets out of bed, goes to his dresser drawer and comes back with a little box. "Happy Valentine's Day."

I take the velvet covered box. He gets in bed beside me, and I open the lid to see the little silver heart shaped locket. It's beautiful and inside a picture of him, a picture of Juney. I laugh at this. "My guys," I whisper.

He helps me put it on, then he kisses the back of my neck.

“Am I Mom?” I ask because that is what we’ve been fighting about.

“Not my mom,” he says moving over me.

A few days later a severe blizzard traps us in our houses. Marcus can't be trapped, and he is out in it, gone for several days, pulling all-nighters at the station.

Billy's is closed for two days, open the third and then just for lunch, to serve people like Marcus, or guys clearing the roads. A couple of those roads are closed for the first time I can remember.

School is canceled. Juney and I are marooned, going back and forth between our house and Dad's. It's so much fun, rather exciting. If only Marcus could come home and not be on the backroads risking his life, I could be ecstatic right now. Juney and I have been baking, taking treats to Artie, cooking up a storm.

I finish moving out of my old room and into my new home with Marcus. I clean Dad's upstairs and rearrange the furniture so it has two nice guestrooms and a dated but well-functioning bathroom complete with guest towels and soaps. Juney and I keep the stoves loaded with wood.

Then the three of us work to clean Dad's downstairs. Dad makes another pile on the back porch for Goodwill.

Then I focus on Marcus's house. I take the time to get really serious about this place. I want it to look fabulous next time Marcus pops in, I mean I want his Dudley Do-right to fall on the floor.